The baby is six years old today. That, if you weren’t aware, is really crazy. This morning, after I woke him up with my warbly rendition of “Happy Birthday” and forced some oatmeal into him and pushed him onto the school bus after a rousing game of “I’m gonna kick snow on your shoes. STOP IT!”, the husband and I drove into work/school and I mentioned that at that time six years ago we had a brand new, tiny baby and I was enjoying the world through the lens of morphine.
Our memories of the actual birth are very fuzzy. I was induced and we discovered early on that the baby had turned and was poised to enter the world feet-first. My doctor came in the morning and tried to turn him. The baby’s heart rate plummeted and they rushed me back for a C-section.
I remember the nurses scurrying down the hall with me, crying. I remember clutching one of many awesome nurses as they gave me the spinal injection. I remember my legs feeling like they were disappearing and slowly becoming quite out of it. I remember the husband appearing by my side, focusing on my eyes because he didn’t want to see what was going on down below. I remember them saying that the baby was out shortly after 8 a.m. I remember hearing my son cry for the first time a few minutes later.
The husband remembers going to Jimmy John’s to get a sandwich after everyone was settled. Whatever.
Anyway, one of the gifts that we got him is a copy of Now We Are Six, because it’s awesome and I got it when I was six and what’s nicer than cuddling up with some Winnie the Pooh? We also got him this awesome hat:
We got that at Hot Topic of all places. Apparently, Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends is huge with the pseudo-punk/indie/goth/hipster set. Can’t blame them. Foster’s is awesome.